Pa's Fiddle

It would have been worth the trip just to see the fiddle. There was much more to see, of course. The white wooden farmhouse that was custom-built by Almanzo and suited so charmingly for the small stature both of him and of his wife. The stone house that their daughter, Rose, tried to move them into with every modern convenience of the 1920's. (As soon as it was polite to do so, her parents moved back to the farmhouse they loved, and Rose lived in the stone house.) The fenced pasture that my father decided was the exact location where Almanzo threatened to fill a nosey Department of Agriculture agent with buckshot. The two grave markers, side by side, on the outskirts of town, telling us their birth and death dates, while their real history was written in the wind that blew through the trees at Rocky Ridge Farm and in the books that had fed countless imaginations for nearly seventy years. But, it was the fiddle that brought tears to my eyes and constricted my throat.

Somebody must dust it daily, I thought. It gleamed at me, rich and brown and alive. I bowed my head and paid it the homage it was due. And I thanked the Creator who so lovingly thought of music and gave it to man as a part of that sustaining force that bread alone cannot provide. And I thought of the man who used that very fiddle to coax hope from despair, peace from anxiety, and fulfillment from deprivation. This unassuming instrument had played the soundtrack of life for a stalwart family of American pioneers, and it was resting before me, wanting only trained fingers to tune its strings and rosin its accompanying bow.

"I see it now, though I didn't then -- we never could have gotten through it all without Pa's fiddle," Laura recalled for her daughter, Rose's, essay, "Grandpa's Fiddle." And, as anyone who has ever read the "Little House" series by Laura Ingalls Wilder knows, Charles Ingalls's fiddle was the seventh member of the family. On page after page, Laura in her old age remembered for us the songs of long ago, when a fiddle could echo out over the silent prairie and not find another human ear to hear its cry. In fact, the tunes of Pa's fiddle mirrored the circumstances of the family. From the solemn hymns of Sunday worship to the rousing and comic folk songs of a young America; from the Scottish ballads he played for his wife to proud patriotic ditties; it was only when Pa's fiddle was silent that any hardship became too much to bear -- and then, with a spirit of rebellion, Pa would swoop the fiddle back into action to lift the spirits of his family with defiant anthems flung against the impassive and terrible forces of nature.

I wonder if my love of the fiddle were born in those nights spent reading in the forbidden glow of a flashlight the stories of the Ingalls family's trials and triumphs of a hundred years before. Just the sweep of the bow across the strings awakens my heart to furious beating and sets my spine tingling in anticipation of good things to come. Whether it's the music of Spencer Capier*, Andrea Lewis or the Charlie Daniels Band, the fiddle satisfies my soul in a way that no other instrument can match. It's too bad that I'm such a klutz with stringed instruments -- there's nothing on earth I'd rather play than the fiddle.

Charlie Daniels has a song called, "Talk to Me, Fiddle," that is on my exercise playlist. I actually ought not to have put it there, as it always brings tears to my eyes, which leads me to slack the pace of my workout. But, it comes right after "Orange Blossom Special" (which makes me step double-time) on his Greatest Hits album, and I'm always in the mood to hear it, blubbering and all. Basically, the lyrics reflect on the life of the fiddle he's playing; all the hands that his instrument has passed through -- from a Jewish immigrant in a New York tenement house to a Cajun living on the Bayou to a gambler who lost it to a Black man who taught it to play the blues, and so on. And while he sings that song into my headphones and plays the fiddle to the different types of music that it learned and lived, I think of seeing Pa's fiddle in Mansfield, MO back in 2002. How wonderful it is to think that, in the books of Laura Ingalls Wilder, that fiddle really does get the chance to talk to us from out of the mists of time. How proud it must be for Laura to have said, years later, ""Whatever religion, romance, and patriotism I have, I owe largely to the violin and Pa playing in the twilight."

*Spencer's site will claim that he plays the violin -- technically true. But, having heard him jam endless times with Carolyn Arends and rock out on Jennifer Knapp's album, Kansas, I can assure you that he swings that violin fiddle-wise without blinking an eye.

O Blogger, Where Art Thou?

Hey there! I'm not dead. I hope you find that good news.

I cannot believe how long it's been since I've posted a peep on here. Sorry to any and all who may have checked in occasionally.

For all of you who have more than one child and manage to post with some sort of regularity, I doff my cap to you (figuratively, of course). I nanny a wee one part-time (along with my rambunctious four-year-old), and can barely wrangle a moment to eat lunch, let alone write out anything coherent. So kudos to all the moms and dads who valiantly keep the blogging sphere spinning 'round.

I have the next two days off, so, hopefully I can dump out some of the swirling thoughts that completely absorb my shower-time and right-before-nodding-of-to-sleep time onto this keyboard and rid myself of them forever.

Blessings to all!

Summer Reading (Had Me a Blast)

The burning question on every mind this summer is, "What are the crazy libertarian types reading on the sandy shores of the countries where they keep their hidden bank accounts and sip Bahama Mamas?"

Well, I have at least a partial answer for you. Go and read what some contributors to Liberty magazine have slipped into their beachbags. Oh yeah, you'll see some recommendations from me there, too. Though, I do not have any off-shore accounts, I have been known to enjoy a drink or two containing tiny paper umbrellas in my time.

Enjoy!

Mad Props for Mike

With Father's Day almost upon us, I would like to write a small tribute to one of my favorite dads.

Now, I could write a heap about my own dad. No one has had a better dad than I. He is King O' Dads -- a man who has unfailingly supported and cheered and loved me every step of my life. I have not left a footprint upon this earth that does not have the mark of his devotion upon it. He gave me wings and let me fly.

I could write volumes about the wonderful man I married, the father of our now and future children. He has been charged to love me as Christ loves the church -- that holy, sacrificial love nearly impossible to enact -- and he does a marvelous job of that. He loves his little girl, and my heart swells with gratitude to see them together. He gave me a nest where I can be safe.

The man I want to write about defies the bird metaphor. So, we're done with that.

One of my favorite people in all the world is my father-in-law, Mike.

Now, Mike and I have practically nothing in common. We've never shared a warm conversation over hot coffee. We've never compared notes on a book we've both read and enjoyed. We've never sat down and watched a movie together.

He thinks, I'm sure, that I am sort of a snob and rather spend-thrifty -- leading his son down a rose-strewn path of extravagance and away from those nose-to-the-grindstone Midwestern values. I think he's a gas; though, I cannot really relate to his interests or personality. He's about as opposite from my own treasured dad as can be; but he is beloved by me, nonetheless.

Mike has given me a gift so undeniably precious that I am forever in his debt. He has given me a husband who was raised by a father who cherished, respected, adored, protected, and delighted in his wife. By his example, he showed Jason what being a husband means -- in those real terms of sacrifice and love that too rarely are given more than lip-service. Because of Mike, I have a husband whose natural inclination is to cherish his wife.

It has been said that the greatest gift a man can give his children is to love their mother. And yet, there is much more at stake. The actions of parents have reverberations in eternity, as sins and sapience echo down through every subsequent generation. Because Mike loves Sheri well, I have a husband who loves me well. Because she had a father who loved her mother well, Sadie will (please God) choose a man who will love her well and show her children what that means. Should we have a son, he will have a model of a model of sacrificial love. These are the legacies that last.

So Mike -- lover of NASCAR and Wal-Mart -- is a gift, rightly treasured by his daughter-in-law -- lover of British literature and fine dining. What a man he raised! What a man I married! Blessed, blessed, undeservedly blessed am I! Thank you, Mike, and the happiest of Father's Days to you!

Take Two Advil, and Comment in the Morning

Sheesh!

If you ever want to induce a headache, I have the means:

1. Go to Christian Book Distributors' website and type, "Calvinism," in the search engine.

2. Pick a book like Debating Calvinism or Chosen But Free.

3. Read the reviews.

4. When your eyeballs start to smoke from the reflective glare of the computer screen and the vitriol hurled thereon, it's time to stop.

I cannot believe how wretched Christians can be toward each other. Come, let us reason together. How important is it, really, to know how little or how much our own faith plays in our salvation? This whole debate reminds me of Margaret Wise Brown's The Important Book: The important thing about being saved is that it is only through Jesus's sacrifice on the cross. The only proof of salvation through grace to us is our faith that is alive in Him. Our only proof to the world of His saving grace to us is the good works that we do in Him.

Once we have received the Holy Spirit in our belief, we are saved. Who cares how it came about? It is another paradox of a paradoxical God. God is sovereign. Period. Man has free will. Period. Embracing the mystical dance of mutually exclusive truths gloriously reconciled is one of the great joys of the Christian journey. Why muck it up?

Okay, so I just started reading up on Calvinism vs. Arminianism because of Brendt Waters of the Musings of Two-Sheds Gomer.

He is full of knowledge and interesting opinions, and maybe further reading will convince me that this back and forth of what seems to me now merely sophistry is actually the substantial issue that so many seem to find it. I cannot believe that brothers and sisters in Christ are calling other brethren heretics and unbelievers if they hold a point of view opposite to their own. How can their joy be full with this mindset?

Two-Sheds isn't like that. He mocks the mockers who would try to appropriate the Lord's job and read the hearts of men. But he's pretty passionate and committed to Calvinism. I worked once with a seminary student who was also a committed Calvinist. Predestination seems to me a cruel creed, though. Little babies marked from birth to spend eternity outside the loving arms of the Father? I cannot help but think that far too simplified and linear a way to view God's saving grace.

On the reviews of the books that I listed above, believers seemed unwilling to recognize the paradox of God's sovereignty and man's free will. Yet, I assure you they wholly accept other paradoxes of Christianity. Jesus's being fully man and fully God? God's presence both within and outside of time? One true God who is also triune? These they accept with alacrity, but then they stumble over this compulsive need to assert that divine sovereignty and human free will cannot be reconciled. Why?

I am not learned enough to comment further on this age-old debate of Calvinism vs. Arminianism. All I know is that once I stopped trying to view God through human eyes and logic and embraced the higher logic of the Divine Paradox, my world became -- ironically and paradoxically -- a clearer, more joyful place; my faith was strengthened and my heart was more full of compassion and peace. I will pray for my brothers and sisters who will let the evil one hold sway as they strive against each other in matters best left to Providence.

"Writing in Paradox"

When I was hanging out with Flicka, the conversation shifted by design to my latest obsession: G.K. Chesterton.

In trying to explain why I admire his writing so very much, I used the phrase, "he writes in paradox." Because Flicka is a writer who understands that words -- in order to have any relevance or impact -- must actually mean things, she pounced on this throwaway expression and demanded an explanation. "How does one write in paradox?" she asked, "It is surely more of a literary device than a style."

This pop quiz flummoxed me, and I racked my brain, trying to get a handle on exactly what I was trying to say. Of course, in situations like this, my brain impishly takes a vacation and mocks me from the beach, Mai Tai in hand. Since no examples came to mind, Flicka kindly let me off the hook, and we continued onward.

On the airplane coming home, I turned again to the wonderful Chesterton novel, The Ball and the Cross, and immediately wanted to bang my head on the seatback tray table all the way to Seattle. For, The Ball and the Cross is written of almost pure philosophy and in almost pure paradox. How ridiculous of me not to think of it!

Now, I do not know if the phrase "writes in paradox" was ever a true match for my meaning; but, the way in which Chesterton is so comfortable using paradox goes far beyond a literary device. His mind is so well able to work a paradox into a just analogy and nimbly stretch and mold a paradox into such an illuminating truth, that it is rather inadequate simply to point out that he uses paradox well. He has embraced the vital paradoxes within the human situation -- and within Christianity specifically -- so wholly that it suits to say that his style is one of paradox.

For instance, the premise of The Ball and the Cross is the struggle to enact a sworn duel to the death between an avowed atheist, James Turnbull, and a devout Catholic, Evan MacIan. So far, a plot set-up rich with possibilities, but not breathtaking in scope. For, one would expect, this is the age-old battle between good and evil, darkness and light -- and the sympathies of the author could go in either direction, depending upon his personal philosophical bent. However, Chesterton makes a complete departure from the ordinary by binding the two arch enemies together with something greater than their epistemological differences, so that they become "in the oddest and most exact sense of the term, brothers -- in arms" (p. 35).

And here is where the master of paradox takes the reader on a fascinating divergence. A new antagonist is added to the plot that drives the two opponents increasingly together: A world caught up in moral ambiguity and plodding apathy toward the biggest issues -- those of light and dark and good and evil. In other words, lightness and darkness must battle the enveloping grayness, before they can battle each other. As Turnbull and MacIan roam across the countryside, trying to find a place to duel, they are continually met by others who would thwart them -- either through preventing their fight or belittling their cause.

Now, I am only about half way through this book, because I've been trying to read up on Chesterton's non-fiction, so I do not know how this will end. But, I can say that the title of the novel, The Ball and the Cross, refers to the decorative spire of St. Paul's Cathedral in London, which is a cross atop a globe. The ball represents the world, and the cross -- well, we all know what that represents. Are the two symbols irreconcilable or amenable? Can they coexist? Does one replace the other? Who deserves prominence? Which is more real? These are the issues that are at stake -- and these are the questions Chesterton dares to explore. And he does it in the way he knows best -- through the paradox of two men diametrically opposed and undeniably united. That is his particular genius.

Five Days of Bad Hair or My Kind of Town

I do not know what it is about the Midwest. Any further east than the Rockies, and my hair goes pffft. Other than coiffure anxiety, though, my trip to Chicago last week was delightful. Thanks for asking.

Frank Sinatra sang that Chicago was "[his] kind of town," and I'm rather convinced that it is mine, too. More imbued with a feeling of history and significance than Seattle, more congenial and intimate than New York, Chicago has a lot to offer -- far more, in fact, than our five days of touring could encompass. But we tried our best, and we saw a bit, and it was all good.

It helped, I think, that the weather took a turn for the cooler when we finally hit the tarmac of O'Hare. Being as web-footed as we are, temps in the 70's were a trial for our packed wardrobes (which had anticipated a much higher degree on the thermostat), but a boon for our psyches. If you're going to be walking around outside the tender arms of air conditioning, an unseasonal cold front helps immensely.

I think my favorite thing about the city was the public transportation. I know; who chooses that? Well, for someone who hates to drive as much as I, getting around by walking and on the subway and the El and the buses was a fantastic dream come true. If there were a way to get into Seattle without a car from the 'burbs, I'd do it all the time. But, West Coast public transportation sucks.

We saw some cool places, such as the Field Museum, the Navy Pier, and the Children's Museum. We ate cool food -- deep-dish pizza at Pizzeria Uno and Chicago-style dogs from a vendor. Jason and my parents got to see more in the city than Sadie and I, because, as I hinted before, we went on a train out of town for a side trip to go visit Flicka Spumoni. That was the highlight of my vacation. And, yes, she's every bit as amazing in person as you would expect from her fabulous writing.


Look at this picture Jason took of a Ferris wheel at the Navy Pier! Did you know that the Ferris wheel was invented for the 1893 Columbian Exposition, Chicago World's Fair? The original was far bigger than this one. Surprisingly, we saw a lot of U.S. Navy servicemen at the Navy Pier. I had thought that that was just an historical name.

All good things must come to an end -- except the best thing, which will never end. But this trip was not built for eternity, so we came home on Tuesday. It's just as well, for the treacherous weather was making another turn-around and getting rather St. Louis-y (i.e. hot and humid and double-dose-of-deodoranty). So, we're back in my lovely, homey, wonderful Pacific Northwest, and my hair is back to normal, and Sadie's sleep schedule is back to normal, and Rylee is here, and life is good.

For, as Frank Sinatra also sang, "It's very nice to go traveling, but it's so much nicer, yes it's oh so nice, to come home."

Nyah Nyah Nyah Nyah Nyah!

I have met, that's right, MET (!) Flicka Spumoni, and you haven't.

Or, maybe you have, too. I really have no way of knowing.

But I have, and that's enough for me!

More later on this momentous occasion -- I am on nanny duty and just heard my Meck-child running to the bathroom.

Thus spinneth the world another day!

Motherly Wisdom Gleaned From Experiences With a Monkey-Child: Volume 1

How to tell that your child has recovered from stomach flu:

1) Chart the firmness of his or her stools.
2) Make a timeline of what solid foods stayed down and for how long
3) Note the diminishing levels of vomit in the "puke bucket"
4) Watch your child run downstairs and fling open the door to the garage to demand from his or her mother -- who has just returned from running some small errand -- a cookie. Then, after he or she has downed peanut butter bread and one cookie, hear him or her meck on and on about wanting homemade spaghetti and meatballs for dinner.

After these careful observations, it should become evident that your child has indeed recovered from the stomach flu and is well on his or her way back to the usual monkey shines.

Welcome to Adorable Trivialities!

Thanks for clicking over to my new address. I have long regretted using "sadiebugsmom" as the address and "The Musings of Justine" as the title, especially when it was printed in Liberty magazine. I just never really expected that anyone else would ever read this blog when I first set it up. It was always more for my own edification and exorcism than for the world at large.

But, now I want something a little more literary and less personal.

"Adorable Trivialities" is the new name of this blog, and it comes from the amazing novel by G.K. Chesterton, The Man Who Was Thursday. After a harrowing 155 pages (in my B&N Library of Essential Reading edition), this novel has the most comforting and burden-lifting ending of just about any novel of its kind (for the reader and the protagonist).

After Syme has been on the run from the anarchists he is trying to thwart, with the sides closing in from all directions and no one's being who Syme thought he was, there is this resolution:

(If you've never read the novel in question, I think this may be a spoiler of sorts, so please read no further and go read The Man Who Was Thursday. It's very short and will take you but a day. I'll wait here.)

[Syme and Gregory] were walking like old friends, and were in the middle of a conversation about some triviality. But Syme could only feel an unnatural buoyancy in his body and a crystal simplicity in his mind that seemed to be superior to everything that he said or did. He felt that he was in possession of some impossible good news, which made every other thing a triviality, but an adorable triviality. (p. 156)

I'm sorry to put you out, all you dear fellow bloggers who have linked to me. Please update your links, or, at least, delete the "sadiebugsmom" link.

Thanks for stopping by!

Album Review: Michelle Tumes

Album: Michelle Tumes
Artist: Michelle Tumes
Label: Levanter, 2006

Major record labels. Who needs 'em?

Since leaving Reunion lo these many years ago, Carolyn Arends has been making amazing music on her own label, 2B Records. Now, five years after she left Sparrow, Michelle Tumes has put out an album on her own label, Levanter, that simply blows away much of what passes for music on the Contemporary Christian market today.

Now, an artist is an artist and will produce the goods whether attached to a major label or not. But, how refreshing, how heartening to know that musicians can follow their own stars and not have to compromise on the quality of production out of the arms (and wallets) of the big studios! This exquisite offering from Ms. Tumes is more proof that indie artists are the wave of the future.

I missed Michelle Tumes. She is one of the most talented and poetic songwriters in music, Contemporary Christian or otherwise. I enjoy all of her Sparrow releases (Listen, 1998; Center of My Universe, 2000; Dream, 2001). The first two of these were evidence of her strong, imagery-filled and evocative lyrics paired with her ethereal, lilting voice. To compare her to Enya, as so many seem to wish to do, is, in my opinion, to do Michelle Tumes a disservice. Enya's music is pretty and soothing, but boring; Michelle Tumes has far more energy than the Queen of Celtic Revival. The third of her Sparrow releases was a departure, and one that I feel often alone in admiring. Dream was playful and dance-beat-driven, with vocals more powerhouse than angelic. I really like it when musical artists are willing to step outside their comfort zone and try new sounds and styles. Most of Michelle Tumes's fans were disappointed, though. Then came the five-year hiatus with its regrouping and studying and songwriting and, now, its glorious culmination: this self-titled offering.

Actually, the title of the album is my only quarrel with it. I've never had much patience with titling an album after its artist. Were I consulted on the title for this release, I would have suggested borrowing from my favorite track and calling it Break Through. For this album is a breakthrough, in many different ways. But, I am getting ahead of myself.

Lush. That is the first word to pop into mind when considering Michelle Tumes. The orchestral sound that marked her first albums is back, richer than ever. The lyrics are nourishing, fulfilling, intoxicating -- cream and strawberries and champagne. Michelle's voice soars and whispers and charms and mystifies. The complete effect of listening to this album from beginning to end is one of being on a journey -- a wistful and sweet and edifying journey. For, this album is tinged with melancholy, but never slips into the brittleness of cynicism or despair.

I believe that Michelle Tumes may be one of the only contemporary songwriters who is able to dabble with Latin in her lyrics without sounding contrived or over the top. The first song, "Introit," is Latin only in the title, but, much like that enduring tongue, the words within are timeless: There's an angel resting on my shadow/There's a haven in every hope I breathe/There's an ancient cross beyond tomorrow/There's a fragrant hymn that's beckoning . . . That's just a taste of the sort of imagery that haunts the lyrics of this collection.

The next song is "Domine (Lord God)." The music of this song is rather upbeat, but the lyrics have notes of anguish in them: Forty days I cried with no reprieve/The tears that raised the tide/Were crashing over me/Forty days I cried with no reprieve/Too far to look ahead/Surround my heart Your grace amends/Domine, Domine/Make my path run straight/Lift my heart, speak my name/I fall, I break/Domine, Domine/Find me far away/Stay, take my pain, I am praying/Domine . . . Something in the idea of crying for forty days without reprieve really struck me. I think that is something to which any listener can relate.

Another song that I just love is "Fair Weather." Again there is a note of torment in her voice when Michelle sings the chorus: In the silence when the fear calls/And the tears pour You carry me home/You're the windfall in the rainstorm/Stay with me (with me)/Never fair weather/You are never fair weather. What a clever contrast -- God's steadfastness with the expression "fair weather friend."

The happiest song -- bright and sunny in both lyrics and tempo -- is fittingly called, "Lovely Day." As our old friend the sun is showing his face at last in the Land O' Rain, this song has played repeatedly in the car: It's a lovely day/It's a lovely day/Heaven on the inside/Your soul's going to fly away. Have you felt that? I have. I've felt so often that wild joy, especially in the beauty of Creation, where you simply feel that your soul is borne upward on the wings of the angels. This song is drenched in the sun's rays, and you can almost taste the salty freshness of the air -- it's the seashore in the form of a song.

My favorite song on this album is the aforementioned, "Break Through." Michelle Tumes is a Medievalist at heart -- she and C.S. Lewis could have a very comfortable conversation about the lore of chivalrous knights and Scottish castles. The imagery of those bygone days served to inspire one of the best songs I have heard in a long time. Imagine, if you will, peering into the distance from the uppermost room of an almost impenetrable tower. Through the misty moors you see a figure emerging -- a gallant knight on a white steed. He vanquishes every opponent on his quest to free you. He is your Redeemer: I see my love, see my love/With might to save/Scale the walls of yesterday/Break through/Be my joy, be my joy/Charge this path and/Storm the tower of my heart/For only you can break through/To me. "Scale the walls of yesterday . . ." She really captured a truth in that line. Our yesterdays are the dividing walls between us and our Creator.

"Caelum Infinitum" throws a little more Latin our way. Michelle translates it for us as "boundless heaven," and she offers us tantalizing glimpses of what previews of His kingdom look like on earth. The chorus is as close as you can come to Gregorian chanting without engaging the men in brown (not UPS drivers). This is vintage Tumes: reinventing the ancient and timeless.

The last song on this album is the most simple. It was written when Michelle was seventeen years old, and it is, "Hold On To Jesus." The arrangement is straightforward -- just the piano and Michelle -- and, because it is so unadorned, the beauty of it rings out clearly: You've got to hold on to Jesus/When your heart is crying, your world is dying/You've got to hold on to Jesus/When your life has had enough. Have you ever felt that "your life has had enough?" I surely have, and I am grateful always to be reminded to hold on to the only One who can recenter my world.

This is the probably the best album of 2006. It is wholly satisfying, and my appreciation of it grows deeper with each additional time I listen to it. I'm so glad that Michelle Tumes is back in the studio. We need her music.

A Silver Cross

Nine times out of ten, when I look in the mirror, I see my big, goofy face staring back. But, on that tenth time, my eyes focus, not on my visage and its various imperfections, but on the small silver cross that hangs from a thin chain around my neck. And my worldview makes a sudden, seismic shift from shallow vanity to eternal truth. And that is why I wear the symbol of my Lord's shame and torture and death -- to remember that I have been purchased at a great price.

Keith Green, in his amazing and convicting sermon, "What's Wrong with the Gospel," asserted that he did not think that the cross was an appropriate thing to wear as jewelry. He said, "If Jesus had been killed in the electric chair, would we wear small replicas of that around our necks?" This gave me pause, and I had to think long and hard about whether God wanted me to continue to wear my cross. I decided to continue to wear it for two reasons. The first is that I do not see it as jewelry, per se. I do not wear the cross to draw attention to myself, nor to adorn my body for personal gratification. I wear it for that tenth time that I look in the mirror -- to remember anew what my Savior did for me at Calvary. And, secondly, I would wear an electric chair around my neck, were that the method by which I had been saved from hell and redeemed of my sins. I would wear it gratefully, joyfully, prayerfully -- as I hope I wear the cross.

I used to take my cross off at times. When I did not think that I was adequately taking up my own cross in His name, I would remove the symbol of my Lord's burden. Then, I realized that that was inappropriate. Because of the two boards stained with His blood and scarred with the holes into which they drove the nails, I have been given a grace that means that though I fail repeatedly to live His example, He shall never forsake me. The times when I am unfaithful are the times I need that glint of silver most to greet me in the mirror. In its reflection are the rough boards, the dark stains, the holes that will never fade away. Now, with an even greater realization of my unworthiness to wear it, I never remove my cross.

And wouldn't a wooden cross be more fitting as a remembrance? Well, again, I am not so sure. Wood, hay and stubble will burn up in the fire, but the things done in the name of Jesus will be turned to silver and gold in His kingdom. I wonder what that device of torture and death that stood underneath a violent, black, mid-day sky two thousand years ago will look like on the other side, transformed to reflect His glory. I see no hypocrisy in a silver cross.

The last comfort I take in my little silver cross is this: Though I only see this symbol in the mirror every tenth time instead of my face, my Father in Heaven sees me 100% of the time through the blood that was shed upon the original. And if He can see me like that -- with mercy and grace and love (and I know what kind of sinner I am -- how black and deceitful my own heart can be even after twelve years) -- how it gives me impetus and strength to see the world through more compassionate eyes. Because of what is represented by this little silver cross, I am seen and can in turn see through the covering of Christ. And that is what I want more than anything in the world.

Finally!

Finally, finally, finally, finally!

U.S. Supreme Court Upholds Ban on Partial-Birth Abortion!

Today the United States Supreme Court, in a 5-4 decision, upheld the federal Partial-Birth Abortion Ban Act of 2003. Justices Roberts, Alito, Kennedy, Scalia and Thomas voted to uphold the ban on partial-birth abortion. Justice Kennedy wrote the majority opinion and Justice Ginsberg wrote the dissent, joined by Souter, Breyer and Stevens.

The Court upheld the ban, stating, "The government may use its voice and its regulatory authority to show its profound respect for the life within the woman." Justice Thomas added in a concurring opinion, joined by Justice Scalia: "I write separately to reiterate my view that the Court's abortion jurisprudence, including Casey and Roe v. Wade, has no basis in the Constitution."

We applaud the Supreme Court's decision today upholding the ban on partial-birth abortion. The United States Congress, and the vast majority of state legislators and American citizens, have made it clear over the last decade that this procedure - by which a child is killed in the very process of delivery - has no place in a civilized society. People in this nation are beginning to understand that brutally taking the life of another human being, while devastating women in the process cannot even remotely be defined as "health care." Women and children deserve better than abortion.

This is the first step in dismantling the charade of Roe v Wade. Constitutional scholars on both sides of the abortion debate acknowledge that Roe v Wade has no constitutional basis. Unfortunately, other equally brutal methods - dismembering the unborn child in the uterus - are not affected by this ruling.

We will continue to work until all women and children our protected from the scourge of abortion.

A Truth Universally Acknowledged

This is definitely a T-Shirt for me!

Enough Said!

Ron Paul in 2008!

If the Republican Party has cojones, Dr. Ron Paul will be their nominee in aught-eight. Unfortunately, those eunuchs will probably leave us the wretched Giuliani or banal McCain or insipid Romney as our alternative to whichever Dem gets the nomination (God help us all!).

I've been a fan of Ron Paul for years now. At first, his credentials as a former LP Presidential nominee were enough to enamor me. Now, his strong Christian faith, his unwavering pro-life stance, his anti-Iraq War stance, and his ability to stand against the brainless tide of GOP me-too-ism have clinched his place in my mind as the perfect candidate.

Good Leaders CAN Come Out of Texas! (But They Need to Have Been Born in Pittsburgh, PA First!)
Congressman Ron Paul (R-Texas) is the leading advocate for freedom in our nation’s capital. As a member of the U.S. House of Representatives, Dr. Paul tirelessly works for limited constitutional government, low taxes, free markets, and a return to sound monetary policies. He is known among his congressional colleagues and his constituents for his consistent voting record. Dr. Paul never votes for legislation unless the proposed measure is expressly authorized by the Constitution. In the words of former Treasury Secretary William Simon, Dr. Paul is the "one exception to the Gang of 535" on Capitol Hill.

Ron Paul was born and raised in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. He graduated from Gettysburg College and the Duke University School of Medicine, before proudly serving as a flight surgeon in the U.S. Air Force during the 1960s. He and his wife Carol moved to Texas in 1968, where he began his medical practice in Brazoria County. As a specialist in obstetrics/gynecology, Dr. Paul has delivered more than 4,000 babies. He and Carol, who reside in Lake Jackson, Texas, are the proud parents of five children and have 17 grandchildren.

While serving in Congress during the late 1970s and early 1980s, Dr. Paul's limited-government ideals were not popular in Washington. In 1976, he was one of only four Republican congressmen to endorse Ronald Reagan for president. During that time, Congressman Paul served on the House Banking committee, where he was a strong advocate for sound monetary policy and an outspoken critic of the Federal Reserve's inflationary measures. He was an unwavering advocate of pro-life and pro-family values. Dr. Paul consistently voted to lower or abolish federal taxes, spending and regulation, and used his House seat to actively promote the return of government to its proper constitutional levels. In 1984, he voluntarily relinquished his House seat and returned to his medical practice.
Dr. Paul returned to Congress in 1997 to represent the 14th congressional district of Texas. He presently serves on the House Committee on Financial Services and the House Committee on Foreign Affairs. He continues to advocate a dramatic reduction in the size of the federal government and a return to constitutional principles.

Congressman Paul’s consistent voting record prompted one of his congressional colleagues to say, “Ron Paul personifies the Founding Fathers' ideal of the citizen-statesman. He makes it clear that his principles will never be compromised, and they never are." Another colleague observed, "There are few people in public life who, through thick and thin, rain or shine, stick to their principles. Ron Paul is one of those few."

Brief Overview of Congressman Paul’s Record:
He has never voted to raise taxes.
He has never voted for an unbalanced budget.
He has never voted for a federal restriction on gun ownership.
He has never voted to raise congressional pay.
He has never taken a government-paid junket.
He has never voted to increase the power of the executive branch.
He voted against the Patriot Act.
He voted against regulating the Internet.
He voted against the Iraq war.
He does not participate in the lucrative congressional pension program.
He returns a portion of his annual congressional office budget to the U.S. treasury every year. (Wow!)

Congressman Paul introduces numerous pieces of substantive legislation each year, probably more than any single member of Congress. (Words in bold are my emphasis.)

"A dead thing can go with the stream, but only a living thing can go against it."

--G.K. Chesterton, Everlasting Man, 1925

The Miracle of Molly

Sadie has now become an official "pet owner" with the addition to her room of a 2 1/2 gallon fish tank (in hot pink, thank you very much). And, into that tank we have placed some fish -- four neon tetras that she named Molly and Molly and Fred and Fred. Just about everything in Sadie's life right now, over which she has naming rights, is called either Molly or Fred. Of course, we have teased her about this without mercy, but she stalwartly holds to those names despite our amusement. She's a stubborn little thing.

Two days after we got the fab four of fishdom, I saw that one of the Mollies was floating up at the top of her tank, resting on her side -- her pitiful little gills expanding and contracting with what seemed to me concentrated effort. Oh dear. Here was one of those inevitable moments of parenting for which no one can adequately prepare. Sadie was at my side, gazing in upon her wards.

"Mama! What's wrong with Molly? Is she dead?" Sadie's dark eyes looked startled.

"Oh Sweetie," I lamented, "I think that Molly is very sick. She may not be with us much longer."

Then, the tears flowed forth.

Sadie has never been shy about death. Maybe it was because since she could talk we've spoken about her Grandma Emilie who is living with the Lord. Since she's been cultivating memories, my father's cat, Rumpy, has died, and she has seen me cry over the passing of the noble Barbaro. We've spoken, of course, about Jesus and His death on the cross and the eternal life that He has promised us, despite the death of our earthly vessels. She has unsettled me with her matter-of-fact promises about how much she'll miss me and remember me when she's grown up and I die. Thanks, Sadie. Parents just love those sympathetic reminders of their mortality.

I guess that this staring of death in the face was a bit much for her to handle, though. She collapsed on her bed. I knelt down beside her and the conversation started.

"Why is Molly going to die? (Everything dies at some time, Sweetie.) Did you feed her too much, Mama? (No.) Did we have too many fish in the tank? (No.) Why does she have to die now? I just got her!"

With what I thought was an inspired moment for sharing some of the gospel, I remembered the sparrows.

"Do you know what, Sadie?" I asked. "Jesus made us a promise about the littlest creatures and how important they are to God. He said that all the little brown birds that we see -- the birds that are too numerous to count -- are known by the Father. He said that not one little bird dies that the Father does not see it. That's true for fishes, too. God is seeing Molly right now, and He knows that you love her and want her to live and swim here on earth. But He also makes the little fishes to come and swim up in heaven. Maybe now He is getting Molly prepared to swim in a river up in His kingdom."

I have no idea if there are streams in heaven with the beloved fish of the earth swimming in them, but I see no reason why there would not be.

Sadie eyed me incredulously through her tears. "There aren't any rivers in heaven," she said. "How could there be one up there in the clouds?" She pointed out her window.

Where do you think the rain comes from, huh? I almost said that, but I remembered in time that heaven really is not "up there," but is rather "out there" -- out of time and space and scarcely comprehensible, even in man's wildest imagination. So, I replied, "Heaven is far beyond the clouds and stars. I am certain that the Lord put the most lovely of streams and ponds and lakes and oceans into His kingdom. Where would He put the little fishes if there were not any water there?"

"Could I see Molly up in heaven some day?" Sadie has every confidence that she will be there, and, at times, she perturbs her mother's heart by longing a little too much to go there immediately.

"I do not see why you could not. Maybe she'll stick her head out of the water and tell you how lovely it is and invite you in for a swim." Okay, sometimes my imagination runs away from me a bit.

"Fish don't talk, Mama," Sadie reproached me.

"Maybe they will in heaven," I shot back.

Then, Sadie had an idea. "Mama, can we pray for Molly? Will you pray for her right now?"

And this is one of the things I love most about children -- their utter belief in and reliance upon prayer. Now I, blinded adult that I am, would never have thought to pray for Molly. There's a part of me that still believes that I need to save up my beseeching prayers for the "big stuff." My daily prayers tend toward thanks-giving and praise, but they leave out the "smaller" tribulations of life. I feel, somehow, that if I bother God with countless little things, He won't have time or energy left for me when I really need Him. Of course, children know so much better that, to God, there are no "little things" in prayer -- that every prayer is treasured by the One who holds the balance of the universe in His palm.

So, we held hands and prayed for Molly the neon tetra floating on her side in a hot pink fish tank:

"Heavenly Father, You made Molly and You love the things and people You have made. You see her now, and You know how long she will live with us and when You will take her to Your kingdom. Lord, if it is in Your will, please heal Molly and give her many more days to swim and play with her friends, Molly and Fred and Fred. But, Lord, if You will that she should die today, please keep her from pain. Please be with Sadie, too, as she learns the joys and heartaches of having pets. We love You, Lord, and we are grateful for the beautiful tropical fish You have made. In Jesus's name, amen."

After that, I looked at Molly again, and she was still ailing. I wondered whether it would be more cruel to leave her floating there until she died, or to flush her down the toilet, half-alive. I did not have the heart to see her pathetic death throes in the toilet, so I decided to leave her there for the time being. After all, with these little fish, death never prolongs his beckoning for many hours. It would all be over by that evening, I thought. We'll get Sadie a new "Molly" tomorrow.

Well, that night, when I went to feed the fish (and, no, I do not overfeed fish!), Molly roused herself upright to gulp a few flakes. Hmm, I thought, that's interesting. She still looked unhappy -- yes, fish can look unhappy! -- but she was eating.

The next morning, she was swimming about, slowly and startingly, but she was swimming. She ate enthusiastically again. Last night was the same, as well as this morning.

It has been two days since the almost-flushed Molly has been off her side, and I cannot help but think it a minor miracle. The Lord has always had a special spot for the prayers of children, and I think He may be answering Sadie's in the least expected way. He certainly delights in surprising us and turning our preconceptions on their heads. I do not know if Molly's out of the woods yet, and her recovery may prove temporary, after all. But, Sadie is pretty certain that God has found Himself able to put off having our tiny fish in His heavenly streams for a little bit, and who is to say she's wrong?

His eye is on the sparrow. It is on the tetra, too.

Rain, Rain, Come and Play -- Visit Justine Every Day!

So, we were down in SoCal a couple weeks ago to celebrate Sadie's Big 0-4 at Disneyland. The weather was a miserable 82 - 88°! We bought a couple of souvenirs at the World of Disney gift shop, and the cashier, in asking for ID noticed my husband's WA driver's license. "Oh! You're from Washington? How are you enjoying our winter weather down here?"


"I hate it," I moodily interjected. "I miss the rain and can hardly wait to get home."


The poor lady thought that I was being sarcastic. I am rarely sarcastic. She laughed nervously.


"Oh, you're kidding, right?"

"No," Jason replied, "She's not. She really does love the rain and cold."

Yep, I really do. It could rain 300 days a year, and I would be in seventh heaven. This is my natural habitat: the Pacific Northwest. Southern Californians have nothing to be so smug about. Flying into John Wayne International and seeing the bland browns and tans of a rainless clime and then flying back into SeaTac over a riot of greens and blues is more than enough confirmation -- should confirmation really be necessary -- that I am blessed to live in the most beautiful place in Creation. At least, it is that way to my eyes. My dad would aver that Western Pennsylvania is the model of Eden -- Jason is partial to the vast expanse of borderless sky that characterizes the Great Plains. As a wise man once reminded me, "That's what makes a horse race."


For your edification and envy, here is the ten-day forecast for my beloved and soggy home:


10-Day Forecast for Renton, WA

Today, Mar. 15
Mostly Cloudy
53°/43°

Friday, Mar. 16
Showers
62°/47°

Saturday, Mar. 17
Showers
59°/48°

Sunday, Mar. 18
Few Showers
57°/47°

Monday, Mar. 19
Showers
54°/44°

Tuesday, Mar. 20
Few Showers
50°/41°

Wednesday, Mar. 21
Mostly Cloudy
51°/42°

Thursday, Mar. 22
Few Showers
55°/47°

Friday, Mar. 23
Showers
57°/47°

Saturday, Mar. 24
Showers
56°/42°

Amy Grant

My response to Amigo's comment on my last blog post:
Help me out with Amy Grant. I really like her singing. "Tis so Sweet to Trust in Jesus" ranks up there as one of my favorite Christian songs. But then comes her personal life (as I understand it). She is divorced from her 1st husband and marries another man, who divorced his wife and married Amy Grant. I read where she said she felt God "released her" from her first marriage. Now I am not trying to be smart mouthed or mean here, but isn't this pretty much what John the Baptist slammed Herod for? I understand God forgives us our sins, but I really don't get the feeling that Grant ever really repented. If I'm out of line on her, let me know and delete my comment.

I would never delete an Amigo comment, and I think he brings up a lot of good points that really ought to be discussed often in the Christian community -- especially as non-Catholic Christians continue to divorce at the same or higher rate than the general public. One thing I've realized recently from some stuff going on at our church is that there is no such thing as a "private" sin in the family of God. So, though a Google search may someday reveal this post to the rabid Amy Grant fans out there who like to insist on her near-saintedness and kvetch continually that a divorce of seven years ago ought never to be discussed again, I'm going to post a bit about the whole "Amy Grant thang" and why and how it affected me. Bear with me, please.

I try to imagine sometimes what it would have been like to have been raised in a Christian household. For those of you who were, try to imagine for a moment what it would have been like to be a sixteen-year-old high school junior and never have heard the Gospel. Of course you would have heard of Jesus (usually in the swear-word format) and you may have even been to church once in a while, but you had never really been told the message of Good News and the unfathomable love of Christ. Try to imagine that, if you will.

Then, imagine that at the end of your favorite pop music CD you hear the words, "When it all comes down, if there's anything good that happens in life it's from Jesus." You can imagine, I'm sure, that at first you would be surprised; then, maybe, a little angry or turned off. But, if you kept listening, the words would start to seep into your soul and revolutionize your worldview.

It took almost five years of soul-searching, flirting with Objectivism and atheism, reading the Bible, praying and listening for this sixteen-year-old to become the young woman who committed to Christ at the age of twenty-one. I would never say that Amy Grant made me a Christian -- only the grace of God through the Holy Spirit can do that -- but Amy Grant's music was the first exposure I had to the idea that there was something unspeakably precious to be gained at the cross of Jesus Christ.

To say I have a soft spot for Amy Grant would be an understatement.

To say that my heart was not broken by the sad and sinful events in Amy Grant's personal life in 1999 would be a lie. Because I had seen a woman made of clay and then expected her to walk on water -- the mud ought not to have been a surprise, but it was. Amy Grant had become so much more to me than just a singer of wonderful songs -- she had become my model for what life in Christ can mean -- beautiful family, happy marriage, successful career. Not exactly what Jesus said about taking up the cross to follow Him, huh? But what did I know, anyway? -- I was a baby Christian looking for the keys to secular bliss in the bosom of eternal truth.

Amy Grant's divorce was, I believe, caused, at least in part, by her and Vince Gill's adultery. I do not believe it was physical adultery, but I do believe -- from the evidence of both their subsequent actions and their words -- that it was spiritual adultery, which, as Jesus reminds us, is pretty much the same thing. She fell in love with a man who was not her husband, and, instead of fleeing the situation, she allowed herself to be mired in incredibly tempting circumstances. For the sins of the heart -- which is where all sin begins -- I believe that repentance comes from nipping those flashes of darkness in the bud. When the heart's contemplations turn into action, repentance is shown by ceasing the actions and seeking forgiveness. All of this is only done through prayer and the workings of the Spirit within.

Has Amy Grant repented of her sin? I should think that her repentance would have included staying away from her temptation instead of marrying him, but my job is not to try to peer into her heart. She says she has sought and found forgiveness from the Lord. I can only take her at her word. Has she asked her first husband, Gary Chapman, for forgiveness? Has he asked her for it (since marriages seldom break up for a one-sided reason)? I don't know. The worst of it was the Chapmans' three children's having to witness their parents' marriage falling apart. That stinks, no matter how much money or fame or faith your family has. Have they asked their children for forgiveness? Goodness, I hope so (though parents so rarely do).

What was hardest for me was to see evidence that Christianity does not protect us always from our sinful natures. With repentance, it protects us from God's justifiable wrath, but it doesn't automatically make us the most discerning of people. We are so easily deceived -- and we do whatever we can to justify our exposed sin to ourselves and the world. For Amy Grant to have said that she had been "released" from her marriage without giving one of the very few reasons that a Christian is biblically allowed to divorce sounds like someone desperate to give holy sanction to sin. That's dangerous. But, if she did have biblical reasons to divorce (from my understanding: abandonment, abuse, adultery, and a non-believing spouse who wants out) why not state them? It is not edifying for the Body of Christ to see their brethren divorce without cause. No-fault divorce is a worldly message that ultimately harms the Gospel.

Okay, so Amy Grant and Vince Gill most likely committed adultery (and their spouses had most likely sinned against them, too). Divorce is generally bad. It is one of those things that, even when it is the necessary course, is never really good. When children are involved, it is often catastrophic. The Baby Boom generation on up through today's parents are going to be answerable to the future and the Lord for two main legacies of foulness: the social acceptability of abortion and divorce. Both rip children apart -- the first physically, the second emotionally. I can only imagine that that pisses Jesus off to no end.

But, where do you go from there? Can Amy Grant still be a powerful witness for the Gospel? I can acknowledge my own disappointment and disillusionment and still find that, yes, her life is a powerful witness of God's grace and restoration in the midst of deception and sin. For, though their relationship started out of lust and adultery, God has used that to His glory. He has given the Grant/Gill household a beautiful daughter and, from what I've read, He has brought healing to all the parties involved. He has truly taken what man has done for evil and turned it to good. And He is still using the gift of music that He so lovingly bestowed upon her, as, especially, the two recent hymns albums have resoundingly testified. I could never be one of those people who say that Amy Grant has lost the right to proclaim the truth of God because of her sin; were that the case, I, too, would never be able to speak or write of Him. She is no more sinful than I. I try to live with a prayerful and repentant heart, and I believe that she does, too.

My Favorite from the De-Motivational Posters Series

Funnily enough (Is "funnily" a legitimate adverb? Must look it up later in the OED), I was reminded of this poster by a cool screensaver that came with my Cozi family organizer. The screensaver brings up a slideshow collage of various pictures from different folders in our computer. From the folder, "Clip Art Downloads," which is basically anything I've ripped off of the Internet, came the collage of this poster, a publicity shot of Carolyn Arends, an album cover of Amy Grant, a photo of Carole Lombard, and a photo of Rosalind Russell -- all of whom are some of the least dysfunctional ladies ever to have graced the (musical) stage or screen.

Evening by G.K. Chesterton

Thought I'd pass along this capturing of the essence of gratitude from Gilbert Keith:

Evening

Here dies another day
During which I have had eyes, ears, hands
And the great world round me;
And with tomorrow begins another.
Why am I allowed two?

Random Thoughts on a Pleasant Day

Well, the snow has finally melted enough at our house for me to feel comfortable driving down off of the plateau. Like most West Coasters (not to be confused with the West Platters), I am a complete wimp when it comes to bad weather driving, and I cower behind four walls until slipping on ice is a very remote possibility, rather than an at-hand probability. So, I took advantage of the betwixt storms situation to hie myself and the Bug out to Bellevue for some mother-daughter bonding time.

Everybody come and play! Throw every last care away! Let's go to the mall today!

At the mall, Sadie and I got our customary Strawberry Julius and soft pretzel. This little ritual was one I observed with my mother, and it is a wonderful tradition with the Bug.

Then we went to Gymboree. I have a love-hate relationship with Gymboree, because every clothing line is absolutely adorable -- and a wee bit on the pricey side -- and I always spend too much when I go there. It is so easy to avoid buying myself clothes (in fact, I hate it), but Sadie looks good in everything, and it's hard not to indulge. I love dressing my little girl.

After the mall, we went to Lakeshore Learning Center, where I got Sadie a new phonics game. She's caught on that her other phonics games are really learning tools, and in her recalcitrant way has begun to refuse to play them. Even promising to get her a dog when she can read at the second grade level has failed to inspire my contrary Meck. She's been like this since birth. I remember coaxing and encouraging her to talk and feeling like a miserable failure when she celebrated her one year birthday without having said a word. Then, when I let go a bit, Sadie exploded with complete sentences and hasn't been quiet since. If I gave up on teaching her to read, she'd probably have her own library card with 100 books checked out within the year. Stinker.

Speaking of books and children, here are two recommendations: The Let's-Read-And-Find-Out-Science series by HarperCollins and Toys Go Out by Emily Jenkins. Sadie's Auntie Sabina got her hooked on the former, and I got Sadie the latter for Christmas after reading a review in the Wall Street Journal. Oooh! And another great storybook is The Runaway Dinner by Allan Ahlberg. That book never fails to crack me up, and, as parents well know, finding books that appeal to you as well as your children is a great boon when you're stuck reading them over and over again.

One thought of books leads to another. I just re-read L.M. Montgomery's The Blue Castle after seeing it mentioned over at Joelle's. I just love that story. And I love, too, how Montgomery's writing really holds up. I loved her as a teenager, and I love her now. Granted, reading her brings me back to those youthful days, but I think she has more than a little to offer the more mature reader. Especially The Blue Castle -- one of the few works of Maude's that I can call to mind where the heroine is an adult when we meet her.

Libraries: All the fun of shopping for books without the reality-check moment at the end when you have to shell out money for them. Awesome! Whenever we pay our property tax, I pretend in my mind that all of it goes to public libraries, which I love (though, from a moral standpoint, I admit really ought to be private), rather than the wretched public school system, which I hate on principle. How fun it is just to cruise the aisles, pick up whatever catches my fancy, and then breeze out the doors with them all, not a penny poorer!

Dinner tonight will be BBQ Chicken Salad -- one of Jason's favorites. This was one of my New Year's Resolutions: Write out two months in advance what I will make for dinner. Because, that's really the hardest part, isn't it -- thinking at 3 or 4 PM what you ought to make for dinner at a time when you are not at all hungry? Now that I know what's on the menu for any given day, I can just go ahead and start making it; there is no need to wait for the dinner muse to come a-knocking. It has worked out fantastically so far, and it is definitely one of my favorite and most practical of New Year's Rezes I've ever made. It helps streamline grocery shopping, too.

Speaking of which, here's kind of a cool thing: Cozi Central. It's a free, on-line family organization center. It puts family members' appointments and messages into a forum that can be easily viewed by other family members via the Internet or mobile phone. You can also keep running shopping lists which can, then, also be viewed by your, say, husband before he leaves work. So far, I really like it.

One of my dearest friends, Princess Holly, is coming up to Seattle this weekend for business, but she's staying with us -- so any down-time becomes hanging-out time. It's always so fun to visit with her. She speaks four languages fluently and has traveled everywhere. Plus, she's a big reader, so there's always something new to discuss. We agree on very little politically or epistemologically, but we share a mutual respect for each other, and there are other bonds that keep our friendship strong. She and I have a standing appointment to make a pilgrimage up to Prince Edward Island and pay homage to Ms. Montgomery one of these days. Now, whether my first trip there will be with Princess Holly or with my other fellow Montgomery-fan friend, vermonster, remains to be seen. Holly is my "Emily" books friend and vm is my "Anne" books friend, and I guess you could even say that Joelle is my "Blue Castle" friend (though all three love the other works, too). Maybe we four ought to plan a simple LMM hootenany to celebrate all aspects and heroines of that enchanting wordsmith's career and life up on PEI someday.

What a lovely, pleasant day!

A New Baby!

Well, she's not mine, but I get to look after her for her mommy and daddy, and I'm pleased as punch to be able to do so. Little Rylee is only 10 weeks old, but she's the apple of mama's and daddy's eyes, as well she should be. What a pumpkin!

This will be a good dry run to see if Lady Meckbottom can handle a younger sibling. Of course, all children get used to being dethroned after a while. And yet, I cannot help but think that Tiny Tyrant will have a harder time than most. She's been Queen Bee for a long while now.

As for me, well, I'm just loving holding that precious little girl and breathing in her sweet babyness. A baby is one of the few things in this world that is an unmitigated good. Each one is a love letter from God.

2007 is looking great!

Gospel Road

Johnny Cash's labor of love, Gospel Road, is really affecting. I'm only about half way through, but, so far, three things have really stuck with me.

The Raising of Lazarus: This is not dramatized on screen, but is narrated by Johnny Cash. What is so intriguing about this is that when Cash speaks of the famous verse, "Jesus wept," he illuminates that in a way I'd never thought of before. Cash says that Jesus wept for His dead friend because He knew that in calling him back to life, He was calling him away from the Father to go through the pain of death again at some future point. This was a new angle to ponder.

June Carter Cash as Mary Magdalene: June Carter Cash's portrayal of Mary's interactions with Jesus is so heartrendingly sincere. When she weeps, she weeps as a believer -- as one who really knows what it is like to be made clean and holy by that deep, unfathomable love. I wept with her, because I, too, have known that awe and gratitude.

Jesus and the Children: The scenes with Jesus and the beautiful children set to a sweet Cash song simply captures how I always picture in my mind was His way with the little ones.

This movie is so stunningly photographed. It looks low-budget, true, but it is real. It is moving, because it is not splashy. I will admit that I have a great weakness for the explorations of Christian faith made in the 1970's. I think that the Jesus Movement alone might have postponed Judgment on the U.S. for a few more years.

I'm looking forward to watching the rest of this movie tonight.

G.K. Chesterton on Blogs and Bloggs

From the wonderful resource, The Blog of the American Chesterton Society, I found this amazingly prescient statement that rather sums up both the rise and societal necessity of blogs:

"[The blog] exists to insist on the rights of man; on possessions that are of much more political importance than the principle of one man one vote. I am in favour of one man one house, one man one field; nay I have even advanced the paradox of one man one wife. But I am almost tempted to add the more ideal fancy of one man one magazine ... to say that every citizen ought to have a weekly paper of this sort to splash about in ... this kind of scrap book to keep him quiet."

[Ward, GKC 497, quoting GKW April 4, 1925]*

Not that even the great GKC could fully fathom the explosion of the public, international journal:

". . . It is a mystic and refreshing thought that I shall never understand Bloggs."

[Ward, GKC 106, quoting an engagement letter from GKC to Frances Blogg]

Of course, as you may have guessed his "Bloggs" were not some archaic British version of the abbreviated, but at that point uninvented, weblog, but rather his future wife's family. And yet, and yet . . . shall any of us ever understand blogs?

Why do we write and publish our hearts' ponderings in such a public way? And why do so many of us open those most dear of reckonings to the scrutiny of strangers' comments? I guess it goes back to Chesterton's first quote: We want to be heard. And, I would add, it is fun to meet others who have the same quirks of thought and expression as we (though that part of blogging is contrary to Chesterton's ideal -- that's a future post, though).

As the second anniversary of Musings draws nigh, I find myself grateful to Blogger for this opportunity to share the twists and turns of my mind and the discovery that I am really not alone. To my dear blogging buddies: Blog on! Blog as though your very freedom depends upon it, because, to a certain extent, it does.

Concert Albums 2: Being a Post in Which I Take Back Almost Everything Previously Stated About Concert Albums

How lame am I? Shortly after posting an inane little item about my general dissatisfaction with in-concert albums, I remembered the first Amy Grant "live" albums from 1981. And then I remembered the video I have (VHS, of course) of Amy Grant's "Age to Age" concert from 1983. And then I realized that my theory was all shot to hell, because both of these have a freshness and spontaneity of the real thing that I found so lacking on her recent offering, Time Again . . . Live. So, maybe the problem is with the bigness of this concert recording, when I have usually seen Amy Grant in concert in much smaller, more intimate settings.

Another factor, too, might be the stage of her career in which the live albums and video were recorded. In the early 1980's, Amy Grant was still a very young gospel singer, whose music appealed to a much smaller demographic. Every song she sung was an earnest attempt to communicate the truth she had come to know. In the most recent live recording, Time Again, Amy Grant is a seasoned pop star, and many of the songs have the tired, worn-at-the-edges feel of someone just going through the motions. The highlights of the album come from her newer songs.

To top off my cluelessness, Jason and I were listening to Louis Prima and Keely Smith's Live From Las Vegas CD yesterday, and -- WOW! I'd forgotten how electric those two are together. Add Sam Butera to the mix, and you have an experience so exciting and alive, that it must be at least pretty close to the real deal. The cozy nightclub setting contributes to the great, off-the-cuff tone of the whole album.

Now, Louis Prima and Keely Smith were not trying to communicate any particular timeless truths with their music, but they were certainly having a hell of a lot of fun. There is something so elemental about hearing them together -- so fitting and right and complementary -- that really comes through on this album. Though it was recorded to be offered as an album for sale, they had sense enough to retain all the false starts and rib-poking and mild swearing that must have been an integral part of their act. Thank goodness they did, because, for someone like me who will never get to see their Las Vegas shows, I can catch the essence of what it meant to be in a smoke-filled room in Sin City in the 1950's at 2 AM, listening to Butera's wailing sax, Prima's swinging trumpet, and Smith's soaring vocals. It's pretty sweet.

So, I was wrong. Very wrong. Sometimes, sometimes artists get it very right with their in-concert albums. If they can shed any sense of self-consciousness and perfection and just go for it, the result is often stunning. I think, too, of Keith Green, whose every recording was practically "live," as he recorded his vocals with his music. No one can beat Keith Green for that immediacy of sound -- that in-your-face urgency that pours out of his songs. In fact, Keith Green in concert cuts is pretty indistinguishable from Keith Green in studio cuts. There is such a rawness in his music -- it is an awesome thing to witness.

I hope that if Carolyn Arends ever decides to record an "in concert" album that she retains the same sense of intimacy and in-the-momentness that makes her concerts such a treat. I hope she retains the jokes and the banter with Spencer and every wrongly-fingered chord that may come. That would be something to treasure for years.

My Inner-Anne

You can thank Joelle for this one:


Which L.M. Montgomery Heroine are You?

Why, thank you very much!


Anne Shirley*

Stemming from a single line in a note-book: "Elderly couple apply to orphan asylum for a boy. By mistake a girl is sent to them," arose a book that put Canadian literature and Prince Edward Island on the map. Montgomery worked on writing the story for eighteen months, and experienced rejection after rejection. Anne of Green Gables was at last published by L. C. Page Company of Boston in June of 1908.

It was instantly popular, appealing to a larger audience than the young girls it was geared towards. Mark Twain wrote to Montgomery saying in Anne she had created "the dearest, and most lovable child in fiction since the immortal Alice." A sequel was almost immediately demanded. Montgomery continued to write about Anne Shirley for the rest of her lifetime, and her career is irrevocably tied to her success with Anne.

Displaced, orphaned, alone, Anne weaves her way into he hearts of not only the fictional characters she comes across in Montgomery's plots, but also, and most importantly, the readers. Nearly one hundred years later, her worldwide appeal is untouched.

The Anne of Green Gables series is composed of eight books (the following contains spoilers, please do not read them if you haven't read the books and don't want them spoiled):

1) Anne of Green Gables - Anne finds her home with Matthew and Marilla Cuthbert at Green Gables
2) Anne of Avonlea - Anne teaches at the Avonlea school
3) Anne of the Island - Anne goes to college and becomes engaged to Gilbert
4) Anne of Windy Poplars (Anne of Windy Willows) - Anne teaches and writes letters to Gilbert from Kingsport
5) Anne's House of Dreams - Anne and Gilbert move to their "house of dreams" and she becomes a mother
6) Anne of Ingleside - Anne and Gilbert's family is complete
7) Rainbow Valley - The focus shifts to Anne's children as they grow up
8) Rilla of Ingleside - Focuses on Anne's daughter Rilla Blythe during WWI

*From The L.M. Montgomery Resource Page

***UPDATE***
And here's why I fell in love with Jason -- his quiz results:


How Gilbert are You?

Concert Albums: Being a Post in Which Nothing Particularly Deep or Important is Said

Does anyone else have a problem with in-concert recorded albums? The premise is great: Recreate the concert experience for the listener at home by capturing the moment in digital quality. But, it never really works, does it? I think that that is because the artist always knows when the recording will take place; therefore, some of the magical spontaneity of the concert just fizzles.

Were I queen of the world, my first decree would be that no performing artist is allowed to know in advance that a recording is being made of his or her concert. I think that that alone would go to great lengths to rectify this sad situation. Second decree: Grover Cleveland carved into Mount Rushmore. (But that's another reflection for another time.)

Take Amy Grant's latest offering, Time Again . . . Live. Now, I've been to many an Amy Grant concert over the years, and she puts on a great show. Time Again is not like going to one of her concerts. It was supposed to be an intimate evening spent in some favorites from almost 30 years worth of songs. Amy brought in her own furniture from home for the concert. The stage certainly looks great, with a big old couch plunked down in the middle. But, the concert never has that intimate feeling, because, instead of keeping it small and homey and simple and unplugged, Amy Grant chose to make it into a big production. It's too big and noisy and self-conscious. I never lose myself in the moment of an unrepeatable breath of eternity, whether listening to the CD or watching the DVD. It leaves me pretty cold.

Now, I can probably safely say that no other fan has attended the sheer number of Carolyn Arends concerts that I have over the past seven years. Carolyn Arends concerts are really something special. Far more special than even the best Amy Grant concert. She is an amazing musician, and she tours with this incredible musician, Spencer Capier, and together -- though they've played the songs hundreds of times -- something spell-binding happens when they jam on stage. It is as though, as they feed off of each other's talents, they draw so much inspiration from their mutual creativity that each song is born anew.

Could this magic be captured on a recording? There have been many of Carolyn's concerts where I've thought at the end, "That was so awesome. I wish it had been recorded so I could relive it." But, on Carolyn's compilation album from 2000, Seize the Day and Other Stories, she included three live tracks. And these tracks are, well, to me at least, less than inspiring. She went in and had a concert specifically to record those tracks, and it shows.

Now, should her people ever enact a covert operation and record a concert by stealth, I think we'd be in business.

I'm Going To Need Some Coffee . . .

. . . When Sadie wakes me up in a few hours!

After having goofed around with this blog for what seems like millennia, I have updated it almost to my liking. I wish the "Coffee Time" banner weren't partially hidden by the Blogger bar, and I'd love it if there were not a black, empty margin running down the right side, but I'm tired and sore and sick of thinking in HTML.

A new look for the new year -- thanks to Caz!

I do enjoy coffee. The coffee culture, rampant bibliophilia, gorgeous scenery, and relentless rain inspired and have continued to deepen my love affair with the Seattle area. This is home, and, for a while at least, my blog looks a bit more like home.

Happy New Year! May all your espresso shots be a perfect 20 seconds. May your beans grind to the maximum extraction of flavor and never to the bitter point. May your milk steam up as frothy as you like. And may life always be for you "good to the last drop."